Fathers and sons during school picture season

It’s school day picture season and I am nearing the end of a 12-year photographic adventure with my son. The next chapter of his life is set to begin after he graduates from high school in a few months. We just received his senior photos.

His mother and I never know what we were going to see when we open up his school photo folder over the past 12 years. He may have been making a goofy smile, or strange face, or pulling some photo prank as a joke.

Even though the boy lives in the house with us, and we spend time together every day, I felt like I didn’t know the person I was looking at in the photos. No longer is he the little boy who used to wear superhero costumes when I took him to the theater to watch the new release of the latest superhero movie. He is a man. His mother can’t talk about it without tearing up. We blinked and this happened.

Robert St. John in 1968.(Photo11: Special to Clarion Ledger)

Even with the occasional goofy smile, his school day photos are a collection of a good-hearted fun-loving collection of kid-without-a-care-in-the-world photographs. My school day photos, on the other hand, were a 12-year nightmare collection of godawful haircuts, bad teeth, awkward clothes, and uncomfortable expressions. It all stems from one photograph that has followed me since the second grade. All of those unfortunate components came together on one fateful day at Thames Elementary School in Mrs. Hinton’s class.

There were several “big days” that occurred throughout the elementary school year back in the 1960s and 1970s, though no day was bigger than the day we received our school photos. When we walked into the class before the first bell rang, the photos were always stacked on the corner of the teacher’s desk. We all knew we weren’t going to see them until a few minutes before the final bell rang, but the anticipation affected everyone. It’s all we could think about.

Mrs. Hinton was a sweet lady who had been teaching for several decades at that point. “Chris Bowen,” she announced as she opened the first envelope. Chris walked down the aisle of tiny desks to get his photo packet. Mrs. Hinton handed the photo envelope to him and waited for him to return to his seat before calling the next student’s name. It was a process that seemed to take hours.

More names were called until she finally pulled one photograph out of the envelope and began to laugh. The entire class leaned forward to see whose photograph was eliciting such a response. Mrs. Hinton tried to compose herself. We were on the edge of our desks. Trying hard to hide a smile, Mrs. Hinton — with a slight tinge of pity in her voice — said, “Robert St. John.”

Harrison St. John in 2019(Photo11: Special to Clarion Ledger)

The entire classroom busted out into a huge round of laughter as I slumped down in my desk, and then made the long, slow walk of shame to the front of the class to pick up the photograph. Looking at it, it was worse than I even expected. Mrs. Hinton had been kind. My teeth were crooked, my eyes were crooked, one ear appeared bigger than the other, and my mother had failed in her attempt to tame my three cowlicks with a half of a jar of Dippity Doo (though it might have been Brylcreem that day). It was a nightmare.

There would be no trading this photo with friends. I went home and tried to hide it in a drawer until my mother asked, “Weren’t you supposed to get your school photos back today?”

“Yes ma’am,” I replied.

“Well, where are they?” I dug them out of the drawer. She opened the packet and laughed, too.

Fast forward 50 years and my daughter — who has never taken a bad photograph, ever — framed and hung my second-grade photo among the 500 historic Hattiesburg photographs on the walls of our new restaurant. It’s right there at table eight. I’m thinking of replacing the photo with my son’s recent senior portrait. It’s a much better representation of the St. John family.